Love Never Lies

by Rachel Donnelly

  “‘Twould appear so.”

  “Newbury.” Dominic’s lips curled in disgust. “I remember him now. No wonder the Lady Isabeau was so eager to believe in a husband that didn’t exist. He’s a battle-hungry tyrant—a traitor, who relishes the taste of blood. And as old as dirt! Hardly the vision of maidenly dreams.”

  Alec tried to ignore the tightening in his gut. He refused to feel guilty. ‘Twas nothing to do with him. What happened between Isabeau and her family was none of his doing. “Since when have you ever been interested in what goes on in a maid’s head?”

  “You could marry her yourself—put an end to their plot.”

  Alec plunked down on the wooden bench, sending forth a humorless laugh. “You think the King will be grateful—reward me with enough coin to rebuild Highburn? I doubt that.”

  “He’ll be grateful, that’s certain.”

  “Not grateful enough.”

  “So, you’ll just hand her over to him!” Dominic’s voice filled the tent, overflowing with accusation. “A man who’s used up three wives?”

  Alec found it difficult to believe, if not ridiculous, that Dominic felt such protectiveness for his prisoner, considering their short acquaintance. But then, Dominic had always been too soft-hearted for his own good. Alec’s tone turned wry. “She’s not as fragile as you may think.”

  “If you lose, you’ll get nothing.”

  “I won’t lose,” Alec said firmly. A vision of fair tresses streaked in gold and expressive grey eyes that could flash like steel or melt a hot tear she tried valiantly not to shed, flashed unbidden through his brain.

  Somewhere, deep down in his soul, a voice mocked, ‘you’re fighting for the wrong treasure’.

  “Here, take this.” Dominic pulled the red scarf Isabeau had given him from inside the sleeve of his tunic. “It’s served me well this day.”

  “’Tis well Abigail didn’t catch sight of it,” Alec said, accepting the scarf, then proceeded to tie it around his wrist. “I’d have no prisoner left to trade.”

  Dominic grinned, displaying deep dimples. “Your heart is a riddle. First you would protect her, then, you would give her up. Which is it? Do you love her or nay?”

  Alec sent Dominic a dour look before disappearing beneath the mail shirt William lifted over his head.

  When he emerged Dominic had vacated the tent.

  But his words pricked Alec’s heart as William continued to help him to dress.

  Not enough to steer him from his course, but enough to make him determined that Barak would pay double, if he wished to get the Lady Isabeau back.

  ***

  The herald announced the combatants.

  A cheer rose up from the crowd.

  Isabeau wriggled in her seat, rubbing her moist palms on the sun-warmed skirt of her red kirtle. A crisp breeze fanned her cheeks, bringing with it the smell of blood. Or mayhap ‘twas the taste of it from biting down so hard on her lip. Every part of her was tense from the crown of braids on her head to the doe-hide slippers on her feet.

  Rather than a mass battle with two sets of knights on either side of the field, or a melee, like the one just fought, Barak and Fortin would compete with lances one-on-one.

  But the danger was just as real. Men died at tournaments, lost great fortunes, or were often maimed for life. One knight had already been grievously injured after he was dragged across the field when his foot caught in his stirrup. Another, at that very moment, was being carried off the field, one arm dangling over the side of the stretcher as limp as a rag.

  From her perch on the stands, behind Lord Langley and his daughters, Isabeau had a clear view of the crowd of villagers gathered on both sides of the field, as well as the colorful tents of the visiting knights.

  Barak’s red banner, crested in blue, rose amongst them like a call to freedom.

  If only she could speak with him—discover his plan.

  But ‘twas impossible with the man-at-arms Fortin had posted at the bottom of the berfrois watching her every move, not to mention his family sitting so close by.

  Abigail declined to acknowledge Isabeau’s presence, other than a depreciative sniff as she swept by to take her seat next to the Langleys, jerking the skirts of her green gown behind her as she went, as though fearing them spoiled by Isabeau’s touch.

  Isabeau smiled at this, as she had handled every thread of Abigail’s gowns while scrubbing them at the river.

  Abigail may have ignored her, but not so the rest of the family. Darcy’s curious gaze often strayed in her direction.

  Did he know the terms of the challenge? He would certainly know why Barak was there. Noblemen knew their enemies better than their allies, if they were wise, and he did not strike her as a lack-wit.

  Isabeau longed to question Darcy to discover all he knew, but pride prevented it with Abigail sitting so close with her nose in the air.

  Alec rode forward to take his place on the field atop his black charger, draped in blue.

  Isabeau sucked in a sharp breath.

  Abigail swiveled her head like a hawk, piercing Isabeau with her green gaze. Apparently she had noticed the red scarf tied to Alec’s wrist. There was no mistaking where it came from, as it was the same hue of red as Isabeau’s kirtle.

  No doubt Barak had noticed it as well. If so, he would find it strange that she had bestowed such an honor on the man who held her captive. Had she known Dominic would lend her gift, she would never have offered it in the first place. ‘Twas likely a ploy on Fortin’s part to throw Barak off balance—make him wonder if she wished to be rescued or not.

  Isabeau held no delusions the gesture indicated any affection. She was but an object to Fortin—wrapped in red silk, the scarf on his wrist a symbol of how tight he held her until the barter took place.

  Why this should bother her she did not know.

  Except.

  She wished he would care for her, if even just a little.

  At least, not hate her.

  Her heart might ease.

  She might find some solace in that.

  The horn sounded.

  Alec charged across the field toward Barak, bedecked in yellow and green trappings.

  The ground shook from the pounding of hooves.

  Lances leveled, they met in a clash of metal and wood.

  Alec spun half way around in the saddle, nearly unseated by the blow.

  Isabeau gasped, then quickly recovered.

  ‘Twas foolish for her heart to lurch in fear.

  He was her captor for pity sake.

  She should be cheering for Barak—praying for him to win.

  But she could not.

  Not without knowing what he planned to do with her when he got her back. She had no wish to remain a prisoner, however, the thought of marrying Newbury made her cringe.

  What was to prevent Barak from taking her straight to Newbury—without her parents’ permission? Experience taught her he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Uncle Royce would never go against her mother’s wishes, but Barak would. He had urged his father to do so many times.

  And what choice would she have? She could not forsake her family for the enemy.

  Alec and Barak wheeled their mounts around then charged again.

  The crowd sent forth a tremendous roar.

  Isabeau held her breath.

  Barak suffered a direct hit to his shield, sending up blue and red sparks before he was thrown from the saddle.

  He landed in the dirt with a hollow thud.

  Fortin leapt from his charger, his shattered lance in one hand, shield in the other. “Do you submit?”

  Barak struggled to his feet to reach for his sword.

  Fortin had barely dropped his lance and pulled his own sword from its scabbard when Barak struck the first blow.

  The clang and slide of steel rang above the bawling crowd. ‘Twas surprising how fast men that large could move. The two were well-matched in size as well as might. But there was an agility in Fortin’
s steps that Barak lacked.

  He strove to make up for it with ferociousness, using his broadsword like an axe.

  One of his wild thrusts caught Fortin’s left shoulder, causing him to take a stumbling step back.

  Isabeau clutched the wooden plank beneath her.

  But she need not have feared. ‘Twas a bruising blow, but did not pierce his mail to draw blood. Fortin recovered quickly to answer with a well-timed downward slash.

  The force of it knocked Barak’s sword from his hand.

  In a trice, Fortin was atop Barak, one knee on his chest, pressing the point of his sword against Barak’s throat.

  The breath eased passed Isabeau’s lips in a long sigh.

  Not until Barak rose to his feet, did the implication of his surrender take effect and she began to quiver.

  What bargain had he made on her behalf?

  When Barak pulled his helm from his head, exposing the anger and vexation chasing across the angles of his handsome face, Isabeau felt the urge to bolt.

  ***

  “What?” Isabeau stared at Barak in disbelief. She was beginning to wish Fortin had not allowed her to speak with Barak, for at that moment she felt the urge to do him grievous harm. “Why would you offer twice the ransom, if you don’t have it?”

  “Don’t fret.” He placed a hand on her shoulder as though to comfort her, his chiseled features congealing in an insincere smile below the glow of his thick auburn hair. “Newbury’s anxious to see our families joined in marriage. I’ll return with the ransom anon.”

  “Newbury?” She jerked away, the breath hitching in her throat. For a long moment she could not think. “My parents will never consent to such a match?”

  “Why do you think I’m here?”

  She sent forth a short bitter laugh, knowing his unscrupulous nature all too well. “Why indeed, if not for your own gain.”

  “’Tis true. The alliance is important to our family—not only to me, to both of us.”

  “You know very well what I mean.” She pointed an accusing finger at his chest. “You hoped to win without forfeiting an ounce of silver—to keep the ransom for yourself.”

  He grabbed her by the arms, squeezing so hard she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. “I risked my life for you this day! The least you can do is to show a little gratitude.”

  “You risked your life for wealth,” she said through gritted teeth, trying to ignore the sharp pain shooting up her arms where his fingers bit into her flesh. “For the same reason Fortin did. Do you expect gratitude for that?”

  His features hardened. “You ought to be grateful my father was able to secure a match for you at all. As the youngest you’ll inherit naught. Think you a man marries only to gaze upon a comely face. Your beauty will win you a roll in the hay, that’s all.” He offered one of his almost smiles, sliding his hands down her arms as if to sooth the hurt he’d inflicted there. “’Tis a sound match. I just want what’s best for you.”

  Anger bubbled like a cauldron in Isabeau’s breast, making her whole body shake. “You mean, what’s best for you.”

  “You were always good at getting your own way.” He released her, satisfaction gleaming in his green eyes. “But this is something you cannot change. So, the sooner you come to terms with it the better.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode from the tent.

  Isabeau stared at the open flap long after he left. The fact that he was right made her anger all the more raw. What hope did she have if her parents consented to the match?

  But had they really?

  ‘Twas hard to believe, as they had been vehemently opposed to her marrying Newbury in the past, her mother especially, declaring she would see Isabeau shut up in a convent rather than her marry such a man.

  ‘Twas more likely Barak lied and planned to marry her off without their consent.

  Fortin strode into the tent, looking fresh and fit, if not invigorated after the rigors of the list. He bore nary a scratch. If anything his blue eyes possessed an added sparkle.

  The sight of her red scarf tied around his wrist sent Isabeau’s frustration roiling like an overstuffed pot. “‘Tis your fault! You’re to blame for this? Why could you not behave like other men—let your passions have full rein? I’d not be in this predicament. Newbury would not want me then.”

  Alec folded his arms across his broad chest and arched one black brow. “’Tis nothing to do with me. Your family may betroth you to whomever they wish.”

  “But, nay,” She ranted on, oblivious to what he said, pacing to and fro at the end of the tent. “You let the size of your purse rule your head. ‘Tis unnatural!” She stopped before him to poke her finger against his hard chest. “You, Sirrah, are an abomination.”

  He stared back at her, clearly bemused by her sudden outburst. “Tis the first time I’ve been unbraided for protecting a maid’s virtue.”

  “Ohhh!” His calm tone made her want to scream. Instead, she spun on her heel to resume her pacing, as though he did not exist. “To think I’ve remained chaste for this! To marry Newbury! He’s not a man! He’s beast! A wild animal that should be put out of his misery!”

  “Surely you exaggerate.”

  She stopped to flash him a heated glare. “’Tis said he beat his first wife to death when she did not produce a son. Does that sound like a reasonable man?”

  “You needn’t worry,” he said dispassionately. “Age has mellowed him. I understand his next two wives died peacefully, of natural causes.”

  “And that’s supposed to put me at ease?” She shot him a scornful look, then turned her back on him. Why waste her breath? He was the last person who would care. Like Barak, money was the only thing that concerned him. She was nothing but a bag of silver to him.

  ‘Twas foolhardy to imagine his passionate kiss sprang from anything other than lust—that a kernel of affection for her dwelt in his broad chest.

  He would not help her.

  Well!

  There was nothing left to do.

  In order to comply with her parent’s wishes, she must relieve herself of her virtue with all haste—before Barak returned with the ransom.

  ***

  Isabeau tossed and turned beneath the pelts. ‘Twas almost dawn and she had barely slept a wink. Even the comfort of sleeping in Fortin’s bed did not help. The sweet scent of apple-wood crackling in the hearth and the soft wolf pelts tickled her senses keeping her awake.

  Since her encounter with Barak at the tournament the day before, ridding herself of her virtue plagued her every thought. She had even slept naked, to be ready if God sent a messenger to see the deed done.

  ‘Twould not be easy with Fortin as her keeper.

  Still, surely it was possible.

  Lovers met in secret all the time.

  All she need do, was find one.

  How hard could it be? According to Maddie, men could not resist the urge to copulate. The trouble was, Fortin’s men had made a point of avoiding her since Edric’s punishment. There would be none so bold as to take what Fortin had sworn to protect.

  Mayhap Gwen could help her? There must be dozens of young men in the village. According to Biddy, there were four brothers in their family alone. Surely she could find one who was willing to accomplish the act—one who could be bribed.

  Or mayhap some stranger passing through the village, who had not heard who she was or why she was there, would be willing to see the deed done.

  The problem was, getting there. She was not allowed anywhere outside the courtyard on her own. In order to accomplish it, she would need Myrtle or Gwen’s assistance.

  The groan of the bedchamber door opening brought her upright in the bed. Fortin strode into the room, the fresh scent of the wind carried with him on the damp waves of his black hair. Apparently he had come straight from the bathhouse. ‘Twas aggravating his blue eyes should look so bright, after a night spent reveling in the hall, when she had hardly slept a wink.

  After a brief glance in the direc
tion of the pallet where she usually slept, he made directly for the casket at the end of the bed. ‘Twas not until he threw open the lid that he noticed something amiss.

  His gaze darted back to the empty pallet.

  He sucked in a sharp breath.

  “Good morn, my lord,” she offered, clutching the pelt tighter against her breasts.

  His stance eased once he spied her snuggled amongst the pelts. “’Twas not enough to lay claim to my bedchamber, I see. You’ve now seen fit to take over my bed.”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d mind, as you weren’t using it.”

  His gaze narrowed over the lid of the casket. “That’s about to change.”

  Her pulse quickened as their eyes met. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve decided to help you.”

  “Help me?” Her belly did a little flip.

  “You’re in need of a bedmate are you not?” He cocked one brow. “Or have you changed your mind?”

  “Yea! Nay, I mean…”

  A soft chuckle escaped his lips. “Make up your mind, my lady. Which is it to be?”

  Her mouth went dry as she watched him pull the blue tunic he had worn to celebrate the tournament off over his head. The smell of ale and wood smoke stuck in her throat as she stared at his sleek bare chest. “What of the ransom?”

  “The king’s gratitude will serve me longer than your uncle’s ransom ever could.”

  Her heart tapped hard against her breast. Heat rose to her cheeks all the way from the tip of her toes. So he wished to prevent the alliance to gain favor with the king. Taking her virtue or preserving it, either way, he would secure wealth.

  The loud thud of the casket lid closing made her jump. “Then why not let me go? ‘Twould serve your purpose just as well.”

  He strode closer around the side of the bed dressed in black once again. “I’ve given my word to your cousin. The exchange must take place.”

  Anger heated her blood. No matter which way you looked at it, he came out on top. His bold confidence was too much. “What makes you think I’ll choose you? You aren’t the only man who can see the deed done.”

  “To the victor goes the spoils, and you, my sweet, are the spoils. Besides,” He flashed a brazen smile. “There’s no one else.” He turned on his heel and strode for the door.